17 April 2010

Bullberry Blossoms, Pollinators and Ruby-Crowned Kinglets

IIII Bulberry Blossoms, Pollinators and Least Flycatchers (16Apr10)

0809 I find myself in a post-apocalyptic world of some kind, wandering alone in semi-jedi garb, my only friend a large turtle who waits in trees while I enter ghost-towns in search of survivors. I scam them of food any way I can, often misrepresenting myself. When I get fed, I leave, stopping in the trees where my turtle jumps down into my arms. We continue on. Finally, in one town, I enter an old movie theater where people are living. Among the souls there I spot a familiar woman. It is Mahoney. We've not seen each other in a decade or more. I call out to her, and she doesn't respond, minding her own business, moving up one of the aisles. I call again several times then whistle. When she eventually turns to look, I remove my hood. There's a flash of recognition and disbelief on her face. She comes racing down and we embrace. Both of us are crying while we hold one another, and she keeps whispering, "I can't love you. I can't love you." She has tried to let me go, forget about me. Maybe she's found a new husband. But it doesn't matter, our connection is still there and we are reunited. Then I wake up, and there she is next to me, and I feel lucky. This morning's dream

1450 Sspopiikimi - just warm enough today to go without a jacket, but wearing a light toque to compensate for the wind

1452 All five aapsspini couples are still in place, including the canal couple and late arrival pair. Curiously, the canal couple is still guarding their territory, which makes us wonder if they're going to try nesting again (theirs is the only one to get completely wiped out by predators so far). The late arrivals seem to have pushed over to the second largest island in the south pool now, putting them very close to the established island couple. The ganders from each are in the water facing one another. They must have settled on an arrangement sometime in the last two sleeps

1457 There are only two mi'ksikatsi couples that have come into view so far - the midpond and south shallows. Where the other three couples are hiding, we don't know. Nor is there sign of the blue-winged teal, but that may change once we get around to the blind

1459 At least one killdeer has made its way to the pond. We can hear it down by the peninsula. They've been around on the river and in the stubble-fields for several weeks, but have only now made their way back here. It is also a heavy redwing clickhopper day, many of them dodging away underfoot

1539 We follow the killdeer calls down the peninsula, and the only glimpse we get is as it's flying away. However, there is more going on down here. The first dandelions are open, attracting a brilliant metallic-blue pollinator who jettisons before we can get a picture. No sign of the baby turtles having pushed out of their subterranean nests yet, but there’s a seed-eating ground beetle scouring the pebbles above them

1541 Just up the cutbank from the peninsula, the bulberry brush has finally bloomed and is swarming with honeybees. Amidst the buzz, two ruby-crowned kinglets are flittering about. We can't tell if they're eating the bees or something else. There are also magpies at the nest, but when I go to climb up and peek inside there's nothing

1612 It seems a good number of small moths and butterflies have emerged. Walking the levee around the south pool and over to the blind, we see a spring azure, and dozens of others that are the yellow and brown of the forest leaf litter. All but the azure are skittish and evade the camera

1616 At the blind, we confirm that the mallard situation here has definitely changed today. At least three couples and a few lone drakes are missing, and there's still no sign of the teal either. We have only the subpond left to hope for

1628 When we get to the subpond, we find the goose in her tree, the gander in the water, and several turtles basking on bulrush reeds. No wood ducks, teals, or mallards though

1647 Leaving the subpond, we hike the length of the wet meadows north, with hundreds of small, dark-brown wolf spiders scurrying underfoot. We pass the midpond mama, sitting on her nest, and more basking turtles. Each time we step over a beaver canal that has any water in it, small pike dart off toward the main pond

1702 Our visit concludes with a moth capture on the north end of the pond. We would like to have a more careful look around, especially given the shift in mallard presence. But we have a delivery coming to the house soon, and need to be there to meet them. Tomorrow, however, we'll pack a lunch and plan to pass a good part of the day in careful watching and listening

Obsessing On Purpose

Like most living beings - human or otherwise - I have cultivated a number of behavioural routines and aesthetic predilections that bring structure, or perhaps a sense of security, to my everyday life. In some instances, these quirks and habits border on the embarrassingly obsessive-compulsive. For instance, at nookoowa, I routinely make sure that anything situated on tables or counters be set in an alignment parallel to the edges. Sometimes, nipiitaam or nitana will offset things purposely, just to watch me run around straightening them. On the other hand though, I prefer our tables and countertops to be absolutely empty except when in use, and all items that might otherwise be placed upon them to be neatly stowed away in closets, trunks, and cupboards. I also try to make sure that any like-type objects that happen to be stored on a shelf - such as books, video games, compact discs, statuettes, picture frames, what have you - are neatly aligned and arranged in some pleasing order. My bed must always be made, unless someone’s in it, and nothing beyond sheets, blankets, or pillows belongs on it. It bothers me when clothing is tossed on the floor, or draped anywhere other than on hangers in our closets. Furniture, in the form of couches, cushioned chairs, dining sets, etc. strike me as clutter, limiting the spaces that one would otherwise have available to conduct creative activities. I prefer to sit on the floor, with just a pillow or folded blanket for support. I don’t like any lighting except that which comes from naato’si, nor prolonged periods of electronic noise. The different foods on my plate cannot touch, unless we’re eating Mexican, in which case it must all be mixed together into a bean, cheese, and rice paste. And I don’t think sinks are places to keep dirty dishes, or sponges, or globs of fallen toothpaste… although they are for cleaning such things immediately. The list could go on, all these partialities that are so rarely realized to my satisfaction. The truth of the matter is, in the long run, most of my aesthetic habits bring me more irritation than comfort. Yet I continue to uphold them all the same.

One of my greatest obsessive-compulsive behaviours, a massive sink-hole of energy, and that which applies more than any other to the present project, is an overwhelming desire to document periods of transition in my life. I’ve been journaling since I was about twelve years old, using this practice as a surrogate companion of sorts, with whom to discuss the occasionally strange (and often mundane) changes I’m constantly attempting to make in my life, in whatever direction I happen to be exploring at the time. Over nearly three decades, I’ve experimented with a wide variety of media, from classic stationary and blank books, to audio notes, photography, film, sketching. I’ve written in both first and third person, I’ve tried to approach the practice as story telling, as ethnography, as documentary, as art. But my trouble is this… for me, the final product of my efforts is never good enough. I’m constantly shifting tactics and media. I’ve probably made some stationers fairly rich. In fact, any new idea at all can compel me to destroy prior work and start anew, because my sense is that a fresh journaling project is like an opportunity for the redefinition of self. It’s a personal renewal. A cleansing, a chance to make a vow and completely transform the narratives that guide one’s experiences. An old journal, on the other hand, one that no longer accurately reflects my sensibilities or interests in the present, is to me a blemish, an imperfection, a blatant reminder of the self I’ve already outgrown. Such past projects are like carelessly wrought sculptures, beyond repair. And so I must begin, again and again.

Now I know, some may say that for the artist it is the process that matters, not the product. And there are examples from around the world to demonstrate this claim. There are the Tibetan sculptures made from butter, which melt in the sun. The sacred sand-paintings of the Navajo, scooped-up and discarded at the close of their healing ceremonies. Origami cranes, floating down the rivers of Japan. There are all manner of ikitstakssiistsi to look toward as monuments to the significance of process over product. True. I don’t deny it. But these examples involve at least two aspects that my journals do not. First, they are almost always seen to some stage of human completion, each creative act having a very defined conclusion, the point at which they are left in sacrifice to the sacred beings, the ancestors, the future generations. Which brings up the second distinction they have from my journals – these creative acts are also highly spiritual, inaugurating, feeding, or renewing sacred relationships. And while my journaling practices have always nurtured, I’ve never really approached them as offerings to the forces that sustain my life. Rather, and perhaps sadly, I feel deep down that they have been little more than tools for fostering detachment, as if the immediate activities involved in my pursuits for growth and transformation are somehow not enough in themselves. And I’m aware that it is in large part my history of exposure to an immature and ego-centric global ethos that has conditioned me to such hollow practice.

There is another (and related) reason why I tend to discard imperfect or outdated journals, over-concern myself with the organization of items on my shelving systems, fret obsessively over household clutter, etc. It is because I have been enculturated in an aesthetics that defies nature by placing all like items together, and all unalike items apart. It’s a system partial to concrete categories, surface in its emphasis, allowing little room for metamorphoses, transfigurations, or interconnectivities. In fact, it is a way that fears these complexities and the potential loss of present form. A journal, by its very nature of recording a series of thoughts and life experiences, all of which are unalike except by means of their association to a single person in the midst of constant change, somehow simultaneously calls-to and troubles this aesthetics. As typically carried out, a journal is in essence just another means of imposing false order on the flow of life, both by objectifying experience and by organizing its representation into segments of a linear-time framework that is completely removed from the shifting cyclicality of the natural world. My fluent relationship with both kinds of awareness has, in a sense, rendered me bipolar. I strive for a certain level of systematicity, all the while knowing full well that such order reflects an impoverished approach to negotiating the human condition.

Perhaps what I’ve needed all along is a healthy recognition of both the limitations and potential functionalities of record-keeping practices, particularly in the traditions of aokstakio’p and aisinaakio’p… this, followed by an alterative adoption of those beneficial techniques and media from the established global culture, inwardly, in a manner that augments rather than re-shapes niitsitapia’pii. I am lucky, in this sense, to be already engaged in a learning process through iiyaohkimiipaitapiiyssin, which I’m sure will offer many insights along the way. But all the same, I know that to achieve my vision, to revitalize forms of niitsitapi record-keeping through my journaling practice, I will have to work much more closely with those constant resources I can trust - niitsi’powahsin, akaitapiitsinikssiistsi, ki nipaapao’kaanistsi. I will also need to develop a habit of respecting the advice of my own deeper intuition, and begin responding regularly to the voices of the sspommitapiiksi, ksaahkomitapiiksi, and soyiitapiiksi of kitawahsinnoon. My hope is that in blogging the present journal, Akayo’kaki A’pawaawahkaa, I can explore and perhaps realize this interest. And if nothing else, if the urge to renew strikes again, all I have to do is hit DELETE.